


all the kingdom lights shine

by void_fish



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14436351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: Adrian’s fuckin’ pretty, is the thing.





	all the kingdom lights shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thermocline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thermocline/gifts).



> your friendly nonsense rarepair writer is back on his bullshit, hello everyone
> 
> this was supposed to be porn, then my emotions got in the way. raise your hand if you're shocked.
> 
> this is only about 75% my fault. i'm still probably going to write more.

Adrian’s fuckin’ pretty, is the thing. Jon’s not _blind_ , he sees the gently curling hair and the faint tuck of his waist and those fuckin’ _eyes_ , big and doe-like and Jon doesn’t even _know_ what colour, this weird grey-green that he can’t stop staring at when Adrian blinks at him from across the dinner table, across the booth in the bar, across the locker room like he doesn’t know what he’s _doing_ to Jon.

Anyway. He’s too pretty, is Jon’s point. Too pretty to have a mouth like he does, all sharp wit and Swedish cursing and he _smirks_ when he thinks no one but Jon is watching.

Too pretty to be this sinful, sliding a hand over Jon’s bare back on his way past, smacking his ass with the blade of his hockey stick like he’s trying to get a reaction from him, and then blinking at him with those fucking _eyes_ , pretending to be the innocent when Jon swats at him with his blocker.

Jon feels a little bit like he’s being catfished.

-

‘What’s the rookie’s deal?’ he asks Brownie one day, when he’s at the weekly ‘Make Sure Quickie Doesn’t Starve Or Die Of Loneliness’ dinner.

(He can cook _perfectly well_ , thank you, but honestly Brownie’s wife kind of scares him, and the dinner was her idea, so. He wears a shirt with buttons and brings the wine she likes and eats every damn mouthful put in front of him.)

Brownie frowns at him. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘Does he have a deal?’

Jon shrugs. ‘Maybe,’ he says, stabbing at a baby carrot.

‘Is this like your Joner thing?’ Brownie asks, innocent, and Jon jumps, the baby carrot falling off the fork onto the floor, where it’s inhaled by Brownie’s horde of dogs.

‘What Joner thing?’ he asks, carefully.

Brownie doesn’t look malicious, just a little concerned. ‘You watched him all the time. I thought it was like, some goalie mentor thing, but you weren’t like it with Bernie, and you aren’t with Kuemps.’ He chews on a roast potato, thoughtfully. ‘You watch Juice a lot. So I figured, maybe it’s not a goalie thing, maybe it’s a-- them, thing.’

Jon is looking very hard at his wine. ‘It’s not a thing,’ he says.

‘If it was, would you tell me?’ Brownie asks.

Jon opens his mouth to answer and then there’s a loud crash, and at least two children start screaming bloody murder.

‘Fuck,’ Brownie says, at the same time as his wife yells his name, and he jumps out of his chair and heads inside, leaving Jon alone with his dinner, his quickly-emptying wineglass, and his thoughts.

-

It all comes to a head just before playoffs, because of fucking _course_ it does.

The guys are out at a bar, having one last drink before they get into the postseason; they know they won’t be drinking while the playoffs are happening, however long that may be.

Sand is a dumb fucking name for a bar, but Jon kind of likes it anyway. It’s right on the beach, has its own cordoned off little area right up to the ocean, complete with bouncer cum lifeguard to save any idiots who try to go for a swim.

Jon likes it because he can rock up in shorts and flip-flops and drink shitty beer out of a plastic glass. The rest of the team like it because they don’t tend to get recognised, and because they don’t card.

Adrian’s newly twenty one, but still sneaks in behind Toff and Pears like he thinks he’ll get asked to leave if they catch him. Still gets Iafallo to buy him drinks like he’s gonna get carded right there by the bartender.

Jon’s maybe a couple of beers deep at this point, and one shot of something weird and green that Brownie insisted on, because he stopped maturing at sixteen and green shots are still fun and exciting for him. It wasn’t bad, tasted like melon, but Jon’s a little worried about the next morning.

Anyway. He’s a couple of beers deep, and Muzz is telling him some story about what happened the last time he went out fishing, and Adrian sidles over, bumping against Jon and apologising, like Jon doesn’t know it wasn’t an accident even a little bit.

‘Already drunk, rookie?’ Alec asks, raising his eyebrows at Jon, as if to say, ‘what are you gonna do?’

‘ _No_ ,’ Adrian insists. ‘I just tripped on my shoelace, that’s all.’

 

Jon glances down. He’s wearing boat shoes, not a lace in sight. When he looks back up, Adrian’s looking at him, smiling that _fucking_ smile.

Jon takes a long swallow of beer. He’s gonna fuckin’ need it.

-

He’s out on the beach trying to get some air when he feels a pair of eyes on him.

He’s playing with the joint he rolled earlier this evening, knowing no one’ll give a fuck if he smokes it out here, but also.

He doesn’t glance over his shoulder, but he does slip it back into his pocket.

‘Why are you out here?’ Adrian asks in that soft fuckin’ accent that Jon’s been, god help him, dreaming about.

‘Needed some air,’ Jon says. He goes to take a drink, but his glass is empty. Adrian replaces it with one of the ones he’s holding, and puts the empty on a passing tray.

While he’s distracted, Jon finally lets himself look. Adrian’s pupils are blown, even in the low almost-sunset light, and his hair is falling into his face. It looks incredibly soft. Jon lets himself think about how he wants to get a hand in it. Pull it.

Adrian is smiling at him, one side of his mouth pulling up like he knows exactly what Jon’s thinking. He drinks the last of his drink in one go, throat bared and taut. Jon likes to imagine he can see Adrian’s pulse jumping.

‘I’m gonna go to the bathroom,’ Adrian announces. He sets his glass down on a table, and starts weaving his way through the thinning crowd.

Jon watches him go and wonders if that was an invitation. He fingers the joint in his pocket one last time, and drains his beer dry.

He’s about to follow, when Carts steps neatly in front of him. He’s drinking coke, still on the good meds from his leg, and he has that weird facial expression he has when someone (previously Richie, now Toff and Pears) is trying to convince him that what they’re doing is a good idea.

‘You sure about this, Quickie?’ he asks.

Jon is just drunk enough to consider telling Carts that the moral superiority look just makes him look constipated, but not drunk enough to actually tell him.

So he just raises an eyebrow, like he doesn’t know what Carts is talking about.

‘Don’t pull that face at me,’ Carts says.

‘Are you gonna tell me not to do it?’ Jon asks, challenging.

‘No,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Just gonna tell you to think about it.’

He walks away, limping a little with the ankle guard he wears when he’s not at the rink.

Jon thinks about it for long enough that when he gets to the bathroom, Adrian’s not there. Fuck.

-

There isn’t time for anything in playoffs. Not regret, not anger, nothing but hockey and the deep, bone-tired exhaustion that takes them all after a game.

Jon loses and loses and loses and leaves everything he has on the ice and it’s still not _enough_.

He sits in the locker room and listens to Coach Stevens and Kopi and he stares into his empty skates and thinks about the final buzzer. The visitors locker room is far enough away that he can’t hear Vegas celebrating.

Eventually, he drags himself into the shower. It’s a big empty room, filled with steam. Jon lets the hot water roll over his back as he presses his forehead against the cool tiles. His knee aches. His shoulder aches. He’s probably going to have to have surgery in the offseason.

He’s expecting the locker room to be empty when he gets out. No one likes to stick around after a loss, let alone a fucking sweep. Let alone a sweep to an expansion team in their first fucking _year_.

Adrian’s sitting at his locker. His tie is loose around his neck, his hair combed half-heartedly out of his face.

Jon looks at him. He’s not even wearing a towel, has it draped around his neck. Adrian doesn’t even glance down.

‘You’re in my seat,’ Jon says. Adrian’s lips quirk, and he shuffles into Soupy’s stall, wordless.

Jon dresses quietly, quickly.

Adrian watches him. Jon lets him.

‘Can I come home with you?’ Adrian asks, when Jon is tying the tie he wants to throw across the room.

‘No,’ Jon says, and fucks it up. Unties it, starts again.

‘Please?’ Adrian asks. ‘I know you want me. And I know--’ He pauses. ‘I know I should have played better for you. I want to make it up to you.’

Jon looks at him, eyebrows raised. There’s a delicate flush on his cheeks, but his jaw is set. He means this.

‘Three goals,’ he says, surprised by how even his voice is. In a week or so, he’ll be over it, but they scored three goals all series, and he can’t do that for them. It stings.

‘We should all have been better,’ Adrian says, quietly.

‘Yeah,’ Jon says. Adrian flinches a little, but stays where he is.

‘So--’ he says. ‘Take me home.’

Jon takes him home.

-

Part of Jon wishes this moment wasn’t coloured by-- well, everything. The anger and the exhaustion and the shame of losing on _home ice_ in game fucking _four_.

He takes Adrian home, and takes him to bed, and Adrian is so fucking _pretty_ spread out on Jon’s dark sheets as Jon undresses him, tugs the buttons of his shirt loose with careful, steady fingers, pushes the shirt over surprisingly broad shoulders.

Adrian is silent even as Jon is pulling his pants down his thighs. He’s not wearing underwear. Jon looks up at him and Adrian just blinks, doe-eyed and innocent. Jon can’t wait to wipe that look off his face.

Naked, Adrian is all angles and golden skin. There’s the faintest tan line over the line of his hip, and Jon takes a second to imagine the scrap of fabric he must be sunbathing in, little more than a triangle of cloth.

A moment of weakness. He leans in and nips at where his hip juts up, right on the line of pale skin. Adrian tenses and relaxes.

Jon continues. Adrian’s suit pants are around his knees, the expensive fabric bunching up. Jon knows he can afford the dry cleaning bill, so he rucks them even more, tugging them over the bony, delicate ankles and leaving them in an undignified heap on the floor. His socks follow, until all of Adrian is bare and sprawled lazily over his bed. He has the beginning of an erection, stiffening up along his hip, and Jon eyes it. It’s just like the rest of him, fucking _pretty_. Dusky pink at the head, and just the right size for Jon to fit in his mouth.

Adrian props himself up on his elbows and looks down the length of his own body at Jon. His lips are slightly parted, the lower pouting and full. Jon wants to bite it, suddenly, so he does.

It’s not meant to turn into a kiss, but that’s what happens. Adrian opens up for him, and Jon falls right in.

Jon’s hooked up since he started thinking about Adrian, frequents a discreet gay bar just far enough outside of downtown that he doesn’t have to worry about being recognised, and he occasionally brings women home if he’s out with the team. Jon’s pretty equal opportunity, all things considered, but fuck if Adrian doesn’t just blow the past year’s bad decisions out of the water.

Adrian kisses like he flirts, fake-shy and filthy, curling his tongue into Jon’s mouth and then pulling back like it was an accident. Jon can feel the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

He can feel Adrian’s dick, too. It’s joined the party for real, heavy and hot and pressed into the hollow of Jon’s hip even through the thick layer of his shorts. Jon pulls back to look at Adrian. His hair is slicked back off his face, his cheeks are flushed, eyes just a little glazed over. He’s not quite gasping for breath, but a thrill runs through Jon anyway, the knowledge that he did this to Adrian, and he can do more.

(A thought, suddenly. A fantasy, really. The long line of Adrian’s back. The curve of his ass, as golden brown as the rest of his skin. The faint tremble in his muscles as Jon trails the tip of a leather strap he keeps in a shoebox under his bed up the soft skin of his thigh before— _snap_. Adrian crying out. Adrian whimpering. Adrian sobbing. _Begging_. Pulling at the rope on his wrists like it’ll get him anywhere.

One for every goal he should have scored and didn’t in the series, Jon thinks, mean. But not tonight.)

Jon fucks Adrian slowly. First with just one finger, while Adrian twists his hands in the sheets and murmurs in quiet Swedish. He opens up easily, doesn’t flinch away from the coldness of the lube.

Jon fingers him for longer than he strictly needs to, but he likes this part. He likes feeling the stretch around his knuckles, likes the gasps he gets when he twists his wrist unexpectedly. He likes the sheen of sweat on Adrian’s temples and chest as he tries so hard to stay still and quiet.

He doesn’t need to be either, Jon likes watching him squirm, and his neighbours are fifty yards away on either side. But it’s cute that he’s trying.

He gets his first “please” when he’s three fingers deep, stretching to prepare him for a fourth. Jon’s not strictly big enough to need this kind of prep, but. He can’t resist. He looks away from the gorgeous stretch of Adrian’s rim, away from where the head of his dick is darker and darker and starting to leak onto Adrian’s flat, bare belly. Adrian is looking down at him with barely disguised desperation.

‘Please, Jon,’ he says, his accent thicker than normal.

‘Please, what?’ Jon asks, allowing himself another moment of weakness and pressing a kiss to the knee of the leg slung over his shoulder, opening Adrian up even more.

Adrian’s eyes are big and round and pleading. Jon’s knows what he wants. He’s going to make him say it, though.

‘Please,’ he says, once more, and swallows, trying to get his voice to even out. ‘Fuck me.’

Jon hums. ‘You don’t like this?’ he asks, twisting his fingers enough to get him to clench down on them.

‘I do,’ Adrian says, immediately. ‘Fuck, Quickie, I really do, I just want--’

Jon waits.

‘I want _more_ ,’ he says, eventually, arching his back as Jon pulls his fingers out without warning.

‘So did I,’ Jon says, and it’s meaner than he wanted to sound, but.

He got four games. Four fucking games, and now his season’s over. He deserved better. They all did, but right now, he’s feeling betrayed and it still stings. Tomorrow it’ll be better, but not tonight.

Adrian blinks up at him. Jon didn’t realise he’d been staring, he clears his throat and looks down. Adrian nudges at him with his knee, the one not hooked over Jon’s shoulder, until he looks back up at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Adrian says, soft. ‘The whole team is, but. I should have scored. We all should. I want to make it up to you.’

Jon’s chest aches. He takes a breath to ease the tightness, but it doesn’t help.

Adrian waits, silent. He has a careful hand wrapped around Jon’s wrist, the arm steadying himself on Adrian’s breast bone, and he’s making circles with his thumb around the jut of bone that sticks out there.

Eventually, the ache fades. His shoulder still hurts. So does his ankle. Adrian’s erection has flagged, lying soft over his hip. Jon takes another, deep breath, and grips at Adrian’s thigh.

‘Okay,’ he says, and reaches for the lube bottle behind him.

He fucks Adrian slowly, surprisingly carefully. He thought he wanted to make him hurt, make him cry, but mostly what Jon wants is that special brand of human contact you only get through sex. He wants that moment after, where they’re lying together as the sweat cools on their bodies, where they can hear the sound of the waves outside his condo and slowly come back down to earth.

He wants to listen to the rush of blood in Adrian’s chest fade to background noise.

So he fucks Adrian until they come together, and he gets up to get the washcloth, and he comes back to find Adrian curled in his sheets like a little kid, half asleep already. It’s been a long fucking season.

Jon should know better than to let him stay. He should drive him home, or put him in an Uber at the very least. The light from the bathroom plays over his bare shoulder, down his arm, making the tattoos undulate. His hair has fallen into his eyes. He looks small, tucked onto his side. Jon can count the knobs of his spine.

Jon should know better, but instead he sighs, and climbs into bed with him, and lets Adrian fall back into his arms.

He’ll deal with it in the morning, but right now, this is fine. He deserves it.


End file.
